


a new dawn

by novoaa1



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Attempted Sexual Assault, Bad Parent Lillian Luthor, Childhood Trauma, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Kara Danvers/Lena Luthor, F/F, Lena Luthor Knows Kara Danvers Is Supergirl, Lena Luthor Needs a Hug, Lena Luthor-centric, Lillian Luthor Being an Asshole, Minor Violence, Non-Explicit Sex, POV Lena Luthor, Past Child Abuse, Psychological Trauma, Sad Lena Luthor, Suicidal Thoughts, and puppies help, and the writing reflects that, as in, but karas basically a puppy, implied/referenced past childhood sexual abuse, its more of a certain calculated disregard for her own life, its ruff, kara danvers gives lena many hugs, lena had a sad childhood, like. not entirely purposeful though, lionel luthor is a meanie head, ok no actual rape depicted in this but it's heavily heavily implied and like talked around, puppies are like therapy, shes not actively in a state of wanting her own death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-03-13 11:24:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18939961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: Lena's been damaged since she was a kid; what's more, she knows it, too.But she moves to National City and meets Kara Danvers and things are... different.Different as in, Kara starts to make her realize that yes, maybe she's damaged, but that doesn't necessarily have to mean she's damaged for good.(Please read the tags before clicking on this story - this work deals with childhood sexual abuse.)





	1. something like healing

**Author's Note:**

> again, please read the tags, and if you think this might trigger you, don't read. seriously.
> 
> i don't think that my references/depictions of it are terribly graphic (but then again, everything's subjective, right?); please just know your limits and triggers. 
> 
> anyways, this was just a random idea that came to me and I wrote it all out in one go and idk here it is... will probably come back to edit later

She was…. well, she’s not sure how old she was when it first happened, but she was young. Small. Small enough that she didn’t understand what was happening.

 

She just knew that her mom—her _real_ mom—was dead (Lena’s fault), her new mother Lillian hated her (probably also Lena’s fault, though she still didn’t quite understand why), and for some reason, Lionel was being kind to her. 

 

He’d never been cruel, per se—just cold. Detached, like he didn’t care. 

 

(Lena still isn’t sure he ever did.)

 

Lex was away at some astrophysics retreat at Stanford University, and Lena was lonely—she’d grown used to being alone, of course (something that came with the territory of living at Luthor Mansion under Lillian’s watchful eye), but with Lex gone, it became rather unbearable for Lena; stifling. 

 

So, when Lionel gave her a warm smile and told her to come down to his office, to give him some help with Luthor Corp's current business deals and tariffs so that one day she could grow up to work there just like he did, she’d said yes—of _course_ she’d said yes. 

 

All of a sudden, someone was acting as if she had potential, as if she were important, as if she was worth caring for; it made Lena’s chest feel all warm and fuzzy inside, something she hadn’t felt since the last time her birth mother smiled at her. 

 

That feeling was fairly short-lived, unfortunately. 

 

It was there when Lionel had asked her to come sit on his lap, because that’s what fathers did with their daughters… right? 

 

(It’s not as if Lena would have known otherwise.)

 

She remembers clambering up onto his thighs and feeling his strong arms come around her tiny body to hold her tight, and it made her feel warm when she smiled at him and he smiled back because she thought that maybe he cared, that maybe he might love her one day—that alone was enough to make her heart burst with warmth and happiness and _hope_.

 

… But she didn’t feel warm and fuzzy and ‘hopeful' when Lionel started unbuttoning her blouse, or when he put his hand down her skirt and told her in his low scary voice to stay still or else she’d regret it.

 

It didn’t feel warm and fuzzy when he touched her _down there_ and started breathing heavy and pressed the hardness in his pants forcefully against her even as she cried and sobbed because she didn’t understand what was happening but she knew she didn’t like it and was desperate for him to please, _please_ stop. 

 

(He didn’t.)

 

It was the opposite of warm and fuzzy from the very start; it was cold and empty and terrifying, like the sharpened edge of a blade in her gut, like a terrible shame permeating her that she didn’t for the life of her understand, like she was dirty for letting him touch her like that even when she knew damn well she’d never asked for it in the first place. 

 

(Over the years, she became convinced she’d been asking for it, that she’d brought it all upon herself—once or twice, she’d even _apologized_ to Lionel for distracting him, for having the audacity to be so depraved and unclean. 

 

Oftentimes, she’s not sure what hurt worse: the abuse itself, or the aftermath.)

 

And it didn’t stop with simple touches or sitting on Lionel’s lap while he rutted fully-clothed against her—after the first few times, he wanted more. 

 

(Lena had no way of knowing it quite yet, but he _always_ wanted more.)

 

With every interaction, he took a piece of her; a piece of her confidence, a piece of her self-esteem (whatever was left of it), a piece of her _heart_. 

 

(It hurt worse than anything she’d ever known.)

 

She hated herself for it, but she cried at his funeral— _sobbed_ , really. 

 

It was fucked up, and she knew it was, but Lex was spiraling steadily into madness, and Lillian still eyed her as if she were no better than the dirt beneath the soles of her shiny designer heels—she didn’t have anyone’s love. Not anymore. 

 

She’d grown to equate love with attention, good and bad, even as she knew it was a cliché.

 

(She’d spent a good portion of her childhood researching Childhood Sexual Abuse and Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and all the negative effects she’d reap from Lionel’s ‘affections.’

 

She knew she’d have a warped view of kindness, of humanity, of love; and while she’d certainly have liked to think that being smart made her better, made her immune somehow, it didn’t.

 

It really, really didn’t.)

 

And since Lionel was gone, she didn’t have his attentions anymore, even if they hurt sometimes. 

 

(Over the years, Lena had grown to find a comfort in the abuse—because maybe he didn’t love Lena, but he loved her body, and maybe those things weren’t all that far apart to begin with. 

 

Maybe he didn’t want to hear about her day, or comfort her when she was crying, but he still wanted to undress her and touch her and _love_ her in his own way—she knew it was the farthest thing from healthy, but maybe that was love, too.

 

And now? Now, it was gone. _He_ was gone.) 

 

She’d never felt so lost in her life. 

 

🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰

 

8 years later, and she’s the CEO of Luthor Corp—L-Corp now, she’s dubbed it. 

 

( _Daddy’s little girl_ , she thinks bitterly to herself when it’s 2:00am at the office and there’s nothing else to do but think, when she remembers how excited she used to get at the prospect of following in Lionel’s too-big footsteps at Luthor Corp, when even the countless tumblers of whiskey don’t do a thing to help with the screaming self-hatred inside her head—not even to mention the smaller but still ever-present fucked-up piece of her that misses Lionel so desperately like a chronic ache in her chest that she carries through every sliver of her present.)

 

Lex has long since gone mad, taking the last shreds of Lena’s hope, of Lena’s love, of _Lena_ , period, right with him.

 

Lillian’s kidnapped her too many times to count, she’s been arrested once or twice (despite having only lived in National City for four months), and every bloody week someone’s trying to kill her, whether it’s an attempted assassination by guns, _bigger_ guns, or grievous public slander (and bombs—those, too). 

 

(Most times, it’s a combination of two or more of the aforementioned methods.)

 

Overall, it’s rather what Lena expected when she ultimately made the decision to move into such a big city while her last name got even more prominent with each of Lex’s increasingly notorious public meltdowns… except for one part. 

 

One infuriating, charismatic, crushingly _adorable_ part. 

 

Her name is Kara Danvers.

 

Kara Danvers is dorky, and funny, and _warm_ —she announces about a month into Lena’s stay in National City that Lena is now her new best friend, and what’s more, she sticks to it, too. 

 

She gets into the habit of bringing Lena lunch most days; she always provides a Chai tea latte with two shots of espresso for Jess when she drops by; and perhaps most importantly, she defends Lena and her name, protects her from every insult when she can, like Lena's brother isn’t an absolute madman obsessed with permanently ridding the world of Superman, otherwise known as a literal super-powered _god_ whom everyone in the world adores. 

 

And, just because Lena made the grave and sanctimonious error of believing her poor luck couldn’t possibly get any worse, she finds out fairly quickly that Kara Danvers is Supergirl, too. 

 

Kara tells her herself one night when they're binge-watching The Office on Netflix and devouring obscenely unhealthy cheddar cheese popcorn (though it’s mostly Kara, to be fair) about three months after Lena’s settled in National City; funnily enough, Kara fumbles her way through asking Lena on a date, too, that same night. 

 

Lena doesn’t understand for the life of her why Kara might be interested in her, a Luthor, a damaged and wholly broken girl who never quite learned how to glue herself back together—truly, she has to stop herself from asking _“Why?”_ as soon as an exceedingly red-faced Kara manages to sputter out that she’d like to take Lena on a date tomorrow night, and that she’ll totally understand if Lena isn’t interested but she still wants to be friends 'cause she loves being Lena’s friend it’s just she thinks about kissing her sometimes and holding her hand and—

 

Lena stops her there with a kiss, in part because her rambling is getting a bit excessive (even by Kara's standards), but mostly because Kara is just so adorably flustered and saying all the right things and _God_ , Lena wants to kiss her—so she does. 

 

Kara smiles so goofily when Lena pulls back, a faint red lipstick print smeared across that dopey pink grin, and Lena’s heart flutters (it’s never done that before)—over the next month, she discovers being with Kara to be the best thing she’s ever known in her life. 

 

There’s flowers (well, they were there before, but whatever), coffee dates (also there before, but fine, whatever), hugs (also there bef—okay, fine, so maybe Alex had a point when she snickered loudly after they announced that they were together, saying they were basically already dating and neither of them knew it, but it’s not like Lena’s a mind reader, okay?)… and best of all, there’s kisses and _forehead_ kisses (Lena’s favorite) and cuddles and _floating_ cuddles; Lena’s sure that if she dies now, she’ll die happy—perhaps happier than she’s ever been. 

 

( _Definitely_ happier than she’s ever been.)

 

And recently, there’s sex—well, sort of. 

 

She’ll explain:

 

So, they’ll have dinner (or skip it altogether) and make out heavily on any and all available surfaces they can find in Lena's or Kara’s place—then Kara will begin to let out involuntary moans into their kiss and Lena will too and suddenly, Kara's wearing too many clothes because Lena wants to see her _now_ and she tells her so between hungry kisses, and sooner than she can blink there’s a naked Kara standing before her and her legs are wrapped around that sinfully muscular torso and then a blink later they’re in the bedroom and— 

 

Well, she’ll just say this: Super-speed is an amazing thing. Truly. (Especially in the bedroom.)

 

But, returning to the ‘sort of’ part: because now Kara’s naked, and she looks incredible, and Lena might strip down a little too, but only to her bra and panties—never more than that. 

 

(No one’s seen her, _all_ of her, not since Lionel—well, she supposes she should include the countless boys she'd fucked while drunk out of her mind in college, but she couldn’t get naked with them until she was drunk enough to dangle on the edge of death-by-alcohol-poisoning and she always, _always_ insisted on keeping the lights off.

 

They were all so horny and excitable, they couldn't have cared less what she requested—so long as they still got to fuck her.)

 

Then, she’s kissing down Kara’s smooth tanned (and _very_ well-muscled) stomach, leaving a few playful bites along the way (even though they’d never mark her impenetrable skin), and when her teasing gets to be too much and Kara curls a tentative hand in her hair (she always asks for a verbal ‘okay’ from Lena even when she’s told Kara about a hundred times she's into a little manhandling in the bedroom) before guiding Lena’s mouth with gentle strength right to where she needs it most, she goes willingly, sucking and licking and exploring until Kara’s back is arching off the bed and she's gasping out Lena’s name helplessly between strangled exhales as she climaxes. 

 

Then they’ll go a few more rounds after that (Kryptonian endurance really is a thing of beauty) until Kara is utterly spent, and they'll drift off into unconsciousness curled warmly together in a mess of sheets and the heady scent of sex in the air. 

 

Kara asks the first few times why Lena doesn’t need Kara to pleasure her, too—Lena just says she has mental blocks, that maybe one day she’ll tell Kara what they are, and leaves it at that.

 

(It surprises her that she doesn’t lie the first time Kara asks, but at the same time, it also really doesn’t; she doesn’t want to lie to Kara, and she never has. 

 

It makes her weak, she knows; foolish. 

 

Kara’s just a girl, a girl Lena has only known for four measly months, a girl who also just so happens to be a _god_ who can crush Lena with her pinky finger, and trust shouldn’t come that easily. 

 

But somehow, with Kara, it does; Lena has long since stopped bothering with her fruitless attempts at fighting it.)

 

And then, when it’s the anniversary of Lionel’s death and she cancels all of her appointments and locks herself in the apartment to drink until she can’t see and suddenly she’s spiraling so fast and sobbing uncontrollably and panicking because she can’t fucking _breathe_ , she should have known that Kara would come to her, that Kara would know something was wrong, that Kara would care enough to bully her doorman into letting her up to Lena’s sleek penthouse on the top floor. 

 

(After all, she hadn’t bothered tell Kara what was wrong, hadn’t left a text or a note, hadn’t given any indication that that day might hurt her worse than any other.)

 

She should have known that Kara would take her gently into her strong arms, that Kara would carry Lena to bed without a cruel word or lecture, and that when Lena asks if Kara wants to have sex, Kara will ask if _Lena_ wants to have sex right back and Lena will get confused because she just wants to know if Kara wants sex because if she does then Lena will make her feel good for being so nice so she doesn’t get bored and leave her and it’s not all that complicated she just wants to know if Kara wants to have sex? 

 

And still, Kara won’t answer her other than to say they’re not having sex if Lena doesn’t want to, will tuck Lena into bed and place a warm kiss on her forehead (her _favorite_ ) before crawling in behind her and cuddling her until she falls asleep.

 

And in the morning, when Lena is waking up to a worried but oh-so-tender Kara watching over her and stroking Lena’s mussed-up hair with slow deliberate movements in the golden rays of morning sunlight, she’ll think that today is the day she’ll answer Kara’s question, that today is the day she tells her girlfriend about the long-dead father who haunts her like a ghost in everything she does… that today is the day she breaks his hold on her, where she builds a new beginning, a new dawn—one where she doesn’t have to feel quite so haunted anymore. 

 

🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have so many lena feelings ok don't @ me


	2. sebastian blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lena gets an e-mail while Kara is off saving the universe. 
> 
> Things go downhill from there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright so um i wasn't planning on adding to this, but then a couple people requested it, so i think i'm planning to have this part and then one other chapter to wrap it all up (maybe more but i really really don't know lol)
> 
> anyways
> 
> it's dark, of course, cause the subject matter is dark, so please pleasE read the tags and make sure this won't be a trigger for you - that's the last thing i wanna do here
> 
> other than that, here's a new bit:)

It’s a quarter to midnight, and Lena just wants to go _home_ —she’s tired beyond words can say, the only thing she’s ‘eaten’ today is coffee and a horrid-tasting 5-hour-energy (Alex’s advice—Lena won’t be making the mistake of following that again any time soon), and on top of all that, she aches for Kara… which only gets about twenty times worse at the inevitable realization that she can’t have her. Not right now. 

 

No, Kara’s been called by some thin, lanky, and _very_ smiley guy in a tight red costume to go, and she's quoting directly here, “save the multi-verse from the super-powered Nazis,” along with a grumpy-faced spin-off of Robin Hood, a history-loving nerd who can turn into steel, and Sara Lance, who, as far as Lena knows, doesn’t have any super powers beyond throwing a bunch of knives and picking more fights than is probably reasonable (and maybe, _possibly_ , that one time she was resurrected from the dead).

 

It’s a quarter to midnight, and Lena’s still feeling somewhat good-spirited enough to poke fun at Kara’s ridiculous multi-verse-saving companions in her head—that, in and of itself, should be more than enough to tell her that something’s wrong. 

 

Because, a second later, there’s a pleasant _ping!_ to announce a new e-mail arriving in her inbox, and it’s not until she's opened it, until her eyes are scanning the sparse text of the message, that the realization hits her like a freight train and her blood immediately runs cold. 

 

She should have known that that (relatively) contented feeling wouldn’t last—it never did. 

 

(Because, ‘a new dawn’? Who was she kidding?)

 

By all appearances, it’s a rather simple e-mail detailing a last-minute change concerning a long-held meeting with Queen Consolidated for tomorrow (yes, the very same company owned by the leather-clad Robin Hood running around Star City sticking arrows in people on a nightly basis), the CFO offering his sincerest apologies that he’s unable to attend due to a death in the family, but continuing on to inform her that he’ll be sending the COO of Queen Consolidated in his stead—one Sebastian Blood. 

 

And that's where Lena’s hands start to tremble, where a familiar phantom soreness sets in between her thighs, where Lena’s throat seems to swell until she’s struggling to breathe—because, no, _please_. Not him. _Please_. 

 

Throat restricting painfully, eyes beginning to fill with tears accompanied by a burning sensation that’s so bitterly familiar she can almost _feel_ herself breaking, she blinks—once. Twice, desperate to keep her anguish at bay.

 

(It doesn’t work.)

 

And still, the name is there: Sebastian Blood, typed clearly onto the screen even as helpless tears blur her vision and her head begins to spin under a dizzying combination of shock, disbelief, and frustration, all frothing fiercely throughout her being with absolutely devastating efficacy, until she’s gasping for breath and her chest is burning from the strain and it’s utterly impossible to get a single breath of air that will make her feel like she isn’t drowning anymore. 

 

She barely remembers going home that night, barely remembers curling up on the stiff leather couch in her penthouse with a bottle of whiskey clutched tightly in her trembling grip (because her bedsheets still smell of peaches and pinewood and something that’s just so bloody _Kara_ , it makes her chest physically _hurt_ at the thought of going to sleep surrounded by the scent of her when Lena knows she’s not there), barely knows what’s happening until she’s curled tightly in a ball on her couch and shuddering violently in place and downing whiskey straight from the bottle like it’s water instead of the low-grade poison that it is.

 

She doesn’t sleep that night. 

 

She thinks she dozes off for a moment, the alcohol unbearably heavy and clouding her wearied brain with a bone-deep exhaustion that refuses to be ignored—but then, she sees his face; she hears Lionel telling her to “be good for Daddy’s friend” before leaving them alone in that big, scary room; she feels his rough, calloused hands touching her in all the places he shouldn't and gripping her _hard_ , hard enough to bruise until she cries and begs for him to stop. 

 

(He never does.)

 

She sees all that, hears his satisfied grunts with every ounce of pleasure he wrings from her tiny body, feels every depraved thing he ever did to her like it’s happening all over again, and she can’t sleep—instead, she jerks awake like she’s been electrocuted, chest heaving, cold sweat dotting her forehead, shivers wracking her body no matter how hotly the whiskey burns in her gut as vengeful memory chills her to the bone. 

 

He was always more cruel than Lionel, more sadistic—a feat Lena hadn’t known was at all possible until the day they’d met, until Lionel had gripped her small shoulder _hard_ in his big hands and growled lowly in her ear to be good for Mr. Sebastian or else he’d give her away, until the door closed behind her adoptive father and Sebastian reached for her with that wicked grin and she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she’d never be the same.

 

She wasn’t. 

 

_Isn’t_. 

 

Because, now, she’s here, intoxicated beyond belief, the world spinning nauseatingly around her—and, somehow, it’s not enough. 

 

She’s not drunk enough, even though she knows damn well that if she drinks any more she’ll likely wind up in the hospital from alcohol poisoning—or worse (better?), dead.

 

(Honestly, that option is becoming more tempting by the second.)

 

She’s not drunk enough, because she’s still thinking, and if she’s still thinking, then she’s remembering. 

 

She’s remembering Sebastian: his crooked teeth, the pungent smell of his expensive cologne, the sour taste of him on her tongue. 

 

She’s remembering how he liked to play games with her, horrible games, ones that left her broken and sobbing and _broken_ in a way Lionel never had, how he used to make her do things, horrible things, things she doesn’t think she’ll ever forget as long as she lives. 

 

But, she tries—oh, does she try. 

 

Alcohol, work… Kara. 

 

_Kara_. 

 

Beautiful, caring, sunny Kara. 

 

Kara, who says “I love you” to Lena in that gorgeous voice of hers, so soft and affectionate and _sincere_ that Lena thinks she might just be starting to believe it. 

 

Kara, who visits Lionel’s grave with her and stands outside the cemetery just like Lena begs her to and doesn’t ask why she breaks down and sobs and _screams_ at the foot of his tombstone like a little girl, like a broken record, like the walking bleeding _tragedy_ she’s become. 

 

Kara, who kisses Lena like she doesn’t care about the horrible things her lips have been made to do since she was a child—Kara, who doesn’t know about Lionel and Sebastian and all the filthy, unclean parts of Lena she’s so selfishly kept concealed from the very start; Kara, who doesn’t know that the lips she’s kissing aren’t Lena’s, that they never have been, not since the day Lionel claimed her in every way he could, not since he died and left Lena still feeling the burn of his touch like he’s still here no matter how many showers she takes or how violently she’ll scrub her skin raw beneath the spray, or how many times she tells herself she didn’t want it. 

 

Kara deserves better than that. Better than _Lena_. 

 

It’s the last thought she has before she thinks, _Fuck it_ , and reaches for the bottle, before she’s knocking the rest of it back without caring for how hotly it burns going down, her vision blackening around the edges as she feels her grip on reality, on _living_ , begin to fade—and she gladly surrenders to it, greets it like an old friend, falling willingly into the warm arms of the coldest comfort she’d been denying herself for far too long. 

 

And the best part?

 

She doesn’t see Lionel, or Sebastian. 

 

She doesn’t see anything. 

 

🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰

 

She wakes to a throbbing ache in her skull, to waves of nausea churning in her gut, to the steady beep of an EKG and the familiar pinprick of pain at the crease of her elbow where (presumably) she’s been hooked up to an IV. 

 

There’s a part of her that’s angry, of course—because, this? The warmth of a heavy blanket around her, the coldness of liquid vitamins and glucose entering her bloodstream, the rhythmic sound of her heart beeping unchangeably in her ear—this means she’s safe. This means she’s _alive_. 

 

Perhaps most confounding, though, is the part of her that’s relieved—the part of her that surrenders willingly into the comfortable safety of a hospital bed, the newfound resurgence pumping through her veins, the steady ache that seems to radiate from every ounce of her being: the one that tells her she’s _alive_ despite it all.

 

The part of her that wants— _needs_ to see Kara again. 

 

She opens her eyes a second later, relief and frustration battling violently inside her chest until it hurts, blinking away the blurriness from her vision to see a thin, tall figure dressed all in black beside her, the familiar grey floors of the D.E.O., the distinct absence of nurses and white coats and patient charts. 

 

It’s Alex, she gathers quickly enough, the redheaded agent looking down on her with a pinched frown, brows furrowed to make for a rather disgruntled expression caught somewhere between respite and annoyance—probably closer to the latter, admittedly. 

 

“You’re awake,” she observes flatly, immediately busying herself with eyeing the EKG monitor and taking down Lena’s vitals rather than looking the bed-ridden woman in the eye. 

 

Lena swallows thickly, pain lancing through her sore throat as she does. 

 

“How long have I been out?” she manages to ask, her tone hoarse and gravelly. 

 

Alex sighs, setting aside the clipboard on a nearby counter and reluctantly shifting her gaze down to Lena’s. 

 

“Seven hours, though only because your alcohol tolerance is something obscene. You need more rest.”

 

Lena rolls her eyes, already moving to sit up even as every muscle in her body screams in protest, queasiness rising to worrying levels in her gut. “Like hell.”

 

Alex comes forward slightly to hover her hands just above Lena’s shoulders—not quite touching her, but it’s effective all the same; now sitting upright atop the D.E.O. hospital bed, Lena stops her movements, eyeing Alex with scarcely concealed discontent. 

 

“Lena,” Alex presses, something like desperation seeping into her tone.

 

Lena just blinks, dizziness assaulting her senses until she’s sure she’s going to faint. “I-I need to get to work.”

 

“You need to _rest_ ,” an unyielding Alex insists firmly, and Lena sighs. 

 

Rubbing exhaustedly at her temples, trying to quell the thumping in her brain, she clenches her jaw. “I have an important meeting to get to.” 

 

Alex crosses her arms against her chest, brows raised. “Is that why you tried to drink yourself to death?”

 

Lena shoots her a glare, though it’s rather weak, and Alex doesn’t flinch—but, it’s the best she can manage considering the sordid events of the last 12 hours, so, she thinks she did somewhat decently, all things considered. 

 

“That’s none of your business.”

 

“Isn’t it?” she questions sharply, eyeing Lena intently. “Kara _loves_ you, and Kara’s my sister—my _only_ sister.” Lena fights the urge to roll her eyes. "So, yeah, I think I have a reason to be concerned when her billionaire girlfriend—"

 

“Where is Kara?” Lena asks, poorly-hidden apprehension in her tone and not quite finding it in herself to care that she’s just interrupted (and by the stormy look on Alex’s face, the older Danvers is definitely not happy about it). “Is she back yet?”

 

Alex eyes Lena up and down for a long moment, arms crossed, posture ramrod straight—but a moment later, she drops it, letting out a quiet sigh, a flash of worry visible in her softening brown eyes. “No. No, she’s not.”

 

Lena’s face falls and disappointment fills her chest—she doesn’t bother trying to fight it, either, doesn’t care for the pitying look Alex throws her way, because her limbs ache and her head hurts and Kara’s gone and _God_ , she’s never felt so alone. 

 

“Okay,” she manages to choke out, schooling her features into something more neutral—it’s a front, and a poor one at that, if the doubtful look on Alex’s face is any indication; but, really, Lena’s not quite sure what else she’s meant to do. “Can I go now? Like I said, I have a very important meeti—" 

 

“Luthor, what part of _‘You need to rest’_ don’t you understand?”

 

Lena grits her teeth, eyes flashing with indignation. “I have _work_ , Agent Danvers.”

 

“‘Agent Danvers’? We’re back to that now, are we?” Alex mocks, throwing her hands up in clear exasperation, voice raised—it sends agonizing spikes of pain shooting through Lena’s skull, black spots dancing in her vision as she struggles to maintain her composure. “Lena, you’re lucky we even found you; you almost _died_ —“

 

“I didn’t mean to, okay?” she blurts out before she can stop herself, oblivious to the mildly stunned look on Alex’s features as she bows her head defeatedly, muttering quietly to herself: “I didn’t mean to.”

 

Alex is silent for a charged moment; then she’s sitting herself on the edge of the bed, her attentive brown-eyed gaze positively burning into Lena whilst she waits—waits painstakingly for Lena to crack. 

 

When Lena maintains her quiet, lips pressed tightly together, head still bowed, Alex sighs. 

 

“What were you trying to do, Lena?” she questions, a rare sort of tenderness in her tone, one that presses and presses and _presses_ against Lena’s proverbial walls until it hurts, until she can feel herself crumbling, until she isn’t quite sure what or _why_ she’s fighting anymore. 

 

“I just… I was trying to forget, okay?” she mumbles, snapping her eyes back up to meet Alex’s, nearly bursting into tears at the sheer _understanding_ she finds there. 

 

Alex just nods, brows stitched together in genuine concern, body preternaturally still across from Lena's. “Forget what?”

 

“Him,” Lena whispers out before she can stop herself, before she can think about what the _hell_ she’s doing, before she can remind herself of every damn good reason why she never talks about it. 

 

Alex’s brow furrows. “Who’s ‘him'?”

 

“Someone I used to know.” 

 

She’s surrendering to it now, surrendering to the will of the terrible secrets that demand to be heard after remaining stuck in her throat since the very first time Lionel touched her, since he tainted her with his dirty words and filthy hands, since he taught her the meaning of pain and confusion and _abuse_ long before she ever cared to know what any of them were—it’s terrifying, obviously, but there’s a blessed mercy to it, like she’s finally allowed a rest after years of running from the shadows of her past, like she doesn’t have to be alone anymore in the darkness that steals the very breath from her lungs and the life from her weary being, like maybe this represents the start of something… something better. 

 

“Did he hurt you?” Alex inquires gently, and Lena feels like breaking, like cracking wide open in a way she hasn’t allowed herself to since the day it started hurting, like maybe surrendering is the final step towards something that doesn’t hurt quite so much anymore (because God knows everything else she’d been trying had all failed spectacularly)—so, she does. She does, and it’s terrifying and exalting all in one, like condemnation and salvation and a hint of something else she can’t quite name for the life of her. 

 

(It’s horrible and _God_ , it hurts—but, most of all, it’s beautiful.

 

It’s like… like flying for the very first time, feeling the sunlight on her cheeks and the wind in her wings and knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that she’s not going to fall.)

 

“I was too little,” she murmurs, tears burning in her eyes, lower lip trembling—she’s painfully aware that this all probably doesn’t make a lick of sense to Alex, that she’s very nearly talking absolute nonsense, but she can’t find the words anymore, can’t find a way to say that she _needs_ Alex to tell her it’s not her fault, that it never was. “I didn’t know, okay? I didn’t know.”

 

Alex doesn’t blink, though there’s a darkening in her eyes, a tightness in her jaw that tells Lena she’s starting to understand—she doesn’t know whether to be disturbed or grateful for that, truthfully. “What didn’t you know?”

 

“I, um—" she stops herself as a tear traces its way down her cheek, something collapsing in her chest when she says: “I-I didn’t know they wanted me like that, okay? I—I—I said ’no’ so many times, and I didn’t want it, I _promise_ , I—I didn’t know what it meant.”

 

“Lena,” Alex begins, her voice dangerously cold now—but Lena can barely register it all, can barely feel anything beyond the waves of ice-cold shock at hearing the words fall from her lips, at hearing them grow stronger somehow the longer they linger in the air between the two of them, at the realization that she’s just said the words aloud she thought for sure she’d be taking all the way to her early grave. “Who are you talking about?”

 

Lena wipes hastily at the wetness on her cheeks, choking back sobs. “I-It doesn’t matter now, okay? L-Lionel’s dead now, and Sebastian… he’s—it was a long time ago.”

 

Alex’s fist clench the bedsheets tightly in a white-knuckled grip. “Sebastian Blood?”

 

Lena wrings her hands together, sniffling against the new onslaught of tears that threatens to fall. “It doesn’t matter now.” She pauses, blinking as the gears in her brain begin to shift, as hearing the name aloud ignites—the e-mail. _Sebastian_. The _meeting_. “I-I need to get to L-Corp,” she mutters frantically, already fiddling with her IV and readying herself to rip it out. “I have a meeting; Sebastian is probably waiting, I—"

 

Alex stands abruptly at that, fists clenched at her sides. “You have a _meeting_ with Sebastian _Blood?_ “

 

That stops Lena’s train of thought for a moment, shaking fingers stilling upon the tube at the crease of her elbow, and she looks up to eye Alex with bloodshot eyes, tear tracks glimmering like diamonds upon splotchy pink cheeks.

 

“He’s the COO for Queen Consolidated, I—“ she pauses to tear out the IV’s needle, wincing as it causes a sharp, painful sensation to lance up her arm. “I have to go. _Now_ ,” she says as firmly as she can manage, already sliding out of bed to stand on shaky legs, stumbling forward only to be blocked by—

 

Alex. _Of course._

 

“I’m not letting you do this, Lena.”

 

Lena blinks, exhaustion and outright distress warring in her brain until she’s dizzy from the magnitude of it all—she doesn’t have _time_ for this right now. “He-He’ll be angry if I keep him waiting, okay? I have to g—"

 

“You’re not leaving,” Alex states without leaving room for an argument, her stance solid and firm, trapping Lena between Alex and the bed. 

 

“ _Yes_ , I _am_.”

 

“ _No_ , you’re _not_.”

 

“What are you going to do, shoot me?”

 

Alex snorts, shaking her head. “You know I wouldn’t.”

 

“Do I?” Lena asks incredulously, knowing it’s a low blow but not _caring_ , not when the clock over Alex’s shoulder reads 8:49am, and the meeting is at 9:00am—Lena doesn’t want to know what the consequences will be if she fails to show. 

 

Alex wavers slightly at that, a look of hurt flitting briefly across her face—but Lena doesn’t move, refuses to take it back, refuses to give an inch with everything on the line; eventually, Alex heaves a sigh, something like defeat in her eyes. “I’m coming with you.”

 

Wait, _what?_ Lena had been expecting a begrudging concession, maybe a grumpy “Whatever, Lena”—not _this_. 

 

Understandably, Lena has to take a moment to gather herself. “You’re kidding, right?”

 

“I don’t kid.”

 

Lena eyes Alex up and down, searching for a hint of insincerity—regrettably, she finds nothing. 

 

“Fine,” she sighs out, defeated. “But, this is _my_ meeting, yes?”

 

Alex rolls her eyes. “Whatever, Luthor.”

 

Lena fights the urge to smile, chest pulsing with palpable relief even despite herself—because, yeah, that sounds a hell of a lot more like the Alex she knows. 

 

🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know what you think?
> 
> (and yes, i did borrow the 'villain' sebastian blood from arrow... but like, imagine him older for the purpose of this story thing)


	3. praying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lena meets with Sebastian Blood. 
> 
> Predictably, it doesn't go all that well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok wARNING kids: this is a really really dark chapter (im updating the tags to reflect that), and please do noT read if you think this might be a trigger for you... like, seriously. please. 
> 
> (i'm also gonna add the hotlines for abuse and ptsd at some point soon in the notes)
> 
> i've been through the whole 're-traumatizing myself' thing about a million times over, and it sucks pretty freaking bad every single time, even if you're expecting it
> 
> oh and also, because of all of that, i'm thinking i'm going to extend the story a little bit longer than i originally planned - i think it'd be blatantly unrealistic (and almost cheating, in a sense?) to wrap up a story featuring a character with such deep-seated and horrific childhood trauma so quickly... 
> 
> i know very well recovery from that kind of trauma doesn't work that way, and i think it's a little remiss to tell people that it does. (obviously, though, that's just my personal opinion)
> 
> but anyways
> 
> here's a new update....

Her heartbeat thuds deafeningly in her ears; she thinks she might be in serious danger of vomiting; and, on a semi-related (not to mention marginally happier) note, she’s sure she’s never felt so profoundly grateful for her outrageously expensive tastes in cosmetics, because she’s quite certain that if the cheapest implement caked upon her face right now wasn’t the approximately $250 mascara from Dior coating her impeccably-curled eyelashes, she’d be dealing with a very unfortunate ‘Lumps the Clown’ predicament right about now. 

 

As it is, she looks… well, she doesn’t look _good_ , per se, but she looks good enough that she can retain a degree of confidence in her appearance as she strides into L-Corp with a stony-faced full-on-combat-suit-clad Alex Danvers treading closely on her heels. 

 

Her physical appearance was… something she had always held a particularly complicated relationship with, she thinks—the best possible way to sum it up would likely be this: she’s self-assured in the image she projects, but for all the wrong reasons… and, even if she knows damn well why those reasons lie so well within the categorical ‘wrong,’ she’s not nearly brave enough to bother trying to ‘fix’ them. Nor would she want to in the first place, if she’s being entirely honest with herself.

 

In other words, she’s fairly confident in her looks, though, not because her self-esteem is anywhere near an even vaguely healthy level—rather, she’s confident in herself because people objectify her on the daily, because gorgeous models and celebrities want to bed her, because… because even well before she reached her teens, her own father lusted unrepentantly after her like she was something of value, something worth his time. 

 

_That’s_ how she knows she’s pretty. (Well, on the outside, at least.)

 

Is it ~~a tad~~ morbid? Absolutely. 

 

Does she know that it’s ~~a tad~~ morbid? Obviously.

 

But, does that knowledge stop her brain from following the precise delineation of that mangled sort of logic, even when she knows damn well it's warped beyond words can say? Not in the slightest. 

 

Because, somehow, it works for her—it always does. 

 

Like now, when she spots her reflection in the flawlessly-cleaned floor-to-ceiling windows of L-Corp on the way into her office—she catches fleeting glimpses of the sharp line of her contoured jaw, the steep hourglass curves of her figure beneath the skin-tight green dress she’s wearing, the enticing swell of her full breasts where the neckline plunges just low enough to be something of a tease without revealing enough skin to cause a small-scale scandal in the news. 

 

She’d redone her lipstick (an organically-made blood-red color that takes after Chanel’s Cherry Rouge, one of the many cosmetics she makes personally to test only upon herself rather than domesticated animals) in the car-ride over, and she knows it’s immaculate; she knows that her wine-red smirk looks something deadly, that her full-on smile (even if Sebastian Blood will never see it) is a dazzling juxtaposition of blooming crimson and pearly white. 

 

She knows this, and she’ll concede that it does give her some element of peace as she stands before her office doors after sparing a hard-working Jess a quick greeting at her desk—Alex just gives the industrious secretary an awkward nod that has Lena’s lips quirking subtly at the edges. 

 

But, beneath everything, beneath the powder finish and shimmering highlight and scrupulously painted lips, she feels… off-balance. Decidedly un-confident. _Small_ , like she’s back at Luthor Mansion yet again, begging Lionel not to leave her and Mr. Sebastian alone in his too-big office where she knows he’ll hurt her terribly the second he does. 

 

She nearly jumps out of her skin when she feels a gentle hand at the small of her back, _Alex’s_ hand—and, by the understated but decidedly worried furrow in the redheaded woman’s brow (not to mention those soft chocolate-y brown eyes that positively burn through her with palpable concern), Lena knows she’s been standing motionless, lost in thought before her doors for far too long. 

 

Sighing quietly to herself, she straightens her posture (refusing to look at Alex for the moment, for she fears she’ll shatter if she does) and glances at the numberless analog clock mounted upon the spotless white wall above Jess’s head for the time—9:13am. 

 

_Fashionably late…?_ she thinks for a brief moment (with a hint of foolish optimism, even if Lena’s never been one for ‘foolishness' nor ‘optimism'), then inwardly scoffs at that. Arriving upon exactly the hour mark would be fashionably late. 

 

Even a 8:50am entrance (anything past 8:30am on the dot, really) would undoubtedly transmit an air of inertia, of _negligence_. 

 

Regardless, it’ll have to do. 

 

Lastly, she checks that the grip on her Oscar de la Renta purse is firm but not suffocating, accepts an L-Corp tablet with projected numbers and earnings for this month (and the next) from an ever-helpful Jess (which she slides aptly into her purse), and, with a forcibly bold tilt of her jaw, grips the steel-alloyed handle and pulls gently upon the door, suppressing a full-bodied shiver as it glides swiftly open. 

 

_Here we go_.

 

🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰

 

It feels something like a dream, walking inside. 

 

It's like a hazy illusion, seeing Sebastian Blood himself seated comfortably upon one end of her beloved all-white couch (the one she so often shares with one Kara Danvers for lunch dates that always turn quickly into warm cuddles and stolen kisses and whispered confessions under the impartial light of day). 

 

He’s dressed himself in a well-fitted Cambridge-grey suit (and a rather pretentious golden collar pin attached neatly to a deep burgundy-red tie), one leg crossed casually over the other, two steaming venti coffee cups from Noonan’s sitting on either side of Lena’s uniform marble chess board atop the glass coffee table at his knee-level.

 

He’s noticeably older now, of course—permanent creases lining his forehead, well-styled brunette hairs bearing grey at their roots, supplemented by a decidedly less youthful quality to his tanned skin. He’s likely in his late 40’s by now, if not his early-to-mid 50’s, and, to Lena, it’s nothing more than a despicable reminder of just how young she’d been all those years ago, just how defenseless and small in comparison to the men that used her.

 

“Lena Luthor,” he stands to greet her with a winning (read: nauseating) grin, unmistakable arrogance dripping from both his velvety tone and self-assured stance, clever mint-green eyes mindfully tracking her approach. “It’s been too long, my dear.”

 

Were it any other person who fancied themselves audacious enough to receive her in such a way, she might feel a certain mirth cresting beneath her skin, a familiar kind of conviction rising within her at being faced with such obvious hubris (hubris that she would then crush beneath red-bottomed heels with her sharp wit and prodigious intellect)—but, as it was, she merely felt something inexplicably shameful curling low in her gut, something guilty and small and altogether _indecent_ along with the overpowering urge to shrink under the callous inspection of a man she knew all too well once upon a time. 

 

(She’s too young to be having these formidable demons of her past reappearing, these regrets resurfacing after so many years of relative inactivity… and, yet, she feels them anyhow, like a blade piercing directly through her heart, like a sordid pain well beyond her years, one that threatens to overcome her with every approaching step.)

 

Still, she’s grown since they last met; she’s Lena Luthor now, the youngest CEO in the nation… she’s bigger now, _stronger_ (even if she doesn’t quite feel it). 

 

“Not long enough, I’m afraid,” she quips icily back with the ghost of a smirk upon her features to maintain some iota of diplomacy, neatly avoiding his out-stretched arms (she’ll wonder later at the fact that the bastard really had the gall to try and _hug_ her) in favor of approaching her sleek white desk with measured steps, calmly setting down her purse atop its surface and rifling through its interior for the necessary implements they’ve met to discuss. 

 

She feels his wicked gaze upon her all the while, causing her stomach to churn and her cheeks to flush (again, she thanks _God_ for the hundreds-of-dollars-worth of makeup working to conceal her infuriating blush from view)—but, she forces herself to appear outwardly collected even whilst her hands tremble around the tablet in her grip and she has to swallow back the acidic taste of bile rising in her throat. 

 

A moment later, tablet and L-Corp files in hand, she’s traipsing deftly back to the couch where Sebastian sits so unapologetically vainglorious in his pretension, and Alex Danvers stands stiffly towering over him beside the upholstery, her distaste rolling off of her in waves. 

 

(Lena has never been so grateful to see that trademark Agent Danvers scowl.)

 

She places the tablet and files carefully upon the table, one atop the other, before sinking delicately into her seat on the opposite end of the couch, refusing to dignify Sebastian’s obvious leering (a pair of light green eyes raking lewdly up and down her body, his concern for subtlety entirely nonexistent) with any sort of negative response. 

 

“You look well,” she observes coolly instead, ignoring the acrid taste of the complimentary words on her tongue. 

 

When he smirks and opens his mouth to respond (no doubt with some unashamedly derogatory remark), she’s swift to cut him off, determined to make this meeting as quick as humanly possible: “So, let’s discuss the logistics of L-Corp’s subcutaneous bonding agent for nerve cells damaged by Multiple Sclerosis, and Queen Consolidated’s role in the development of a potential cure.” 

 

She eases one of three total files from beneath her tablet, sliding it over to Sebastian’s end without sparing a cursory glance for the man in question. 

 

"I’ve already had my best mathematicians run each and every calculation for projected sales and network finances, at which point they were then brought to me for a final once-over in order to verify their accuracy. Now, I’m sure your chief administrator would agree that—"

 

“Ooh, slow way down there, hon,” Sebastian interjects smoothly (read: condescendingly), and Lena’s skin crawls at the term of endearment that seems to fall so easily off his tongue even as a forceful anger burns hotly within her chest at his utterly unrepentant show of brash flippancy. 

 

“I guess what I heard is right, huh?” he muses, eyes alight with playful amiability as if they’re both in on an especially funny personal joke. "'All work and no play.’”

 

Lena smiles tightly, gaze narrowing. “Well, a multibillion-dollar empire most certainly doesn’t run itself, Mr. Blood. Now, I’d very much appreciate it if you had your best accountants reviewing these numbers—"

 

“You still have that Irish tinge to your accent,” he relates, seeming entirely undeterred in the wake of his second consecutive interruption. “It’s beautiful, Lena. I always thought so.”

 

Then, he fixes her with a politely expectant look, as if pausing in anticipation for a _“Thank you,”_ or some utterly inane display of gratitude for his oily words. 

 

_Fat chance_.

 

“Mr. Blood—"

 

“Oh! Sebastian,” he corrects her swiftly, and Lena can see the anger she is so painstakingly suppressing within herself quite obviously displayed upon Alex’s indignant features off to the side, brown eyes darting to meet Lena’s in a silent question. 

 

_“Do you want me to intervene?”_ they ask, and Lena shakes her head almost imperceptibly in the negative (even if she thinks it’d be quite the satisfactory spectacle to watch Alex Danvers putting Sebastian in his rightful place).

 

“Sebastian,” she repeats instead, ceding the unsolicited amendment. “I was under the distinct impression that you were here to discuss business with me—specifically, L-Corp and Queen Consolidated’s collaboration concerning our developmental treatments for Multiple Sclerosis. However, if you are not prepared to do so, I would be more than happy to give your contact information to my secretary Jess, at which point she will be in contact with you regarding a secondary meeting set for a later date—"

 

_Buzz-buzz! Buzz-buzz! Buzz-buzz! Buzz-buzz!_ goes Alex’s phone (thereby successfully halting Lena’s long-winded spiel), the woman's stormy expression only darkening as she slides the device out to observe the Caller ID—an extra-normal crisis, Lena presumes, even as the dread and nausea in her stomach threatens to boil over. 

 

Alex shoots her an apologetic look that tells Lena she presumes right, along with a baleful glower in Sebastian’s direction that only serves to further confirm Lena’s suspicions. 

 

“I’m going to take this,” she announces, steel underlying her tone. “I will be back in one minute, Lena,” she finishes decisively, eyeing Sebastian with a distrustful stare all the while. 

 

Lena nods curtly—she and Alex both know the phone call will likely take longer than one minute, though Lena’s grateful that Alex had the foresight to announce that it would in a not-so-subtle warning towards Sebastian that Alex would by no means be leaving the two of them alone for good… or, for any longer than a short spell, really. 

 

Still, Alex steps expeditiously through the doors and out into the lobby with one last cautionary look behind her, and Sebastian immediately shifts himself closer to Lena until they’re a mere inches apart on the sofa, and, all of the sudden, Lena is frozen.

 

She’s wholeheartedly _paralyzed_ when she feels the warmth of his body as he leans further into her, his hot breath ghosting unsettlingly along her exposed collarbone, his rotten chuckle whilst he appraises the length of her grown-up body with greedy eyes; rather belatedly, she sorely regrets her long-held habit of wearing form-fitting dresses to the office on a daily basis as she feels a familiar shame creeping up her throat at having so carelessly put each and every curve of her taut young body on display for him. 

 

_This is your fault_ , a devastatingly familiar voice tells her as a single large hand splays itself across her clothed stomach, and really, she thinks they’re right. 

 

_Playing the victim again, are we?_ another sneers as his nose brushes gently against her cheek, his hot breaths growing heavy in her ear, his sure hand sliding to curl possessively around her fabric-clad waist.

 

“I missed you,” he murmurs against her skin, and she shivers as his hand slides purposefully down to her trembling thighs clenched tightly together beneath the hem of her dress—she feels lost and tiny and vulnerable, like she’s nine-years-old and terrified once again beneath the rough hands of a scary man at least twenty years her senior; but, above all else, she can’t ignore how horribly _wrong_ his dauntless touch feels upon her body—wrong in a way that’s somehow stronger than it ever was before, more poignant as it grips her tightly, _painfully_ , categorically refusing to relinquish its unshakeable hold upon her. 

 

“Did you miss me?” he asks, his words tracing hotly against her temple, and she nearly dry heaves right then and there as her brain hazily registers the tightness in his pants, the huskiness in his voice—sure signs of his arousal, signs she’s known like the back of her hand since long before she had even the foggiest idea of what ‘arousal’ was.

 

A second later, and she knows with heartbreaking certainty why it’s so different now, why the pressure of Sebastian’s hands upon her figure feels so indubitably _wrong_ for reasons that span far beyond the fact that she doesn’t love him, or that she doesn’t want him, or that her stomach churns uncomfortably whenever he’s near—it’s Kara. 

 

_Kara’s_ what’s different now; Kara’s the one she wants touching her like that, exploring Lena’s body with reverent hands and whispered praise, being unfailingly _gentle_ in a way that never fails to make Lena think it's the closest she’ll ever get to even the faintest resemblance of divinity. 

 

Sebastian’s hand creeps beneath her skirt and desperate tears burn in her eyes but Kara’s all she can think about, the way she smiles and the mesmerizing cerulean of her sea-blue irises and the sheer _safety_ Lena feels when Kara presses her pinkish lips so softly against Lena’s—

 

“S-Stop,” she hears herself say, shaky and uncertain as a tear traces its way down her cheek. 

 

It’s a daring move, she knows—a _stupid_ one, really, and she’s not sure why she’s surprised when Sebastian’s strong hands jump to her throat, pressing _hard_ against the delicate flesh of her neck until she’s gasping for air and she’s sure she’ll have bruises forming beneath the steely grip of his thick fingers by nightfall; she’s not sure what possesses her to try and squirm out of his suffocating grip, to grasp with what little strength she has left at his clothed arms to pull them away from her, to _fight_ her inevitable torment as if she thinks she might ever escape it. 

 

Still, she fights as her vision blackens around the edges, as she feels her brain shutting down with alarming speed, as the binge-drinking from last night and the resolute avoidance of any nutritious food (or any food, really) for the last twenty-four hours has her hurtling abnormally fast into the consummate darkness of oxygen-deprivation-induced unconsciousness—she has one final thought before she goes, one last prayer to a God up above that she’s never believed in to begin with: that this is the end, that the painful part is over… that she won’t have to wake up again. 

 

And, lastly, that Kara understands why she had to go. 

 

That Kara understands why she couldn’t stay.

 

🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok im sorrY for the cliffhanger truly
> 
> also, me singlehandedly dragging lena luthor out to weekly therapy with the incentive of an obscenely-priced bottle of red wine if she does it? more likely than u think


	4. "honey, i'm home!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lena wakes up (yet again) in the D.E.O. medbay under the care of a rather stoic Alex Danvers. 
> 
> Or: Things are still fucked up, and wrong, and upside-down like never before—but, maybe, just maybe, that's not all there is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> new update! had a rough couple of days so i haven't been doing much writing but
> 
> hope you like

She wakes slowly, feeling a strange sense of déjà vu all the while: there's an EKG beeping steadily somewhere off to her right along with a dull ache at the crook of her inner elbow where an IV has no doubt been injected, not to mention a terrible pounding in her head that makes her last and most recent encounter with alcohol poisoning seem like something of a cake walk in comparison. 

 

Her throat feels dry, her tongue rubs against the roof of her mouth in a sandpaper-like sensation (which, _gross_ ), and, every time she breathes, it’s nearly impossible to get anything more than a pitifully tiny sip of oxygen—it’s as if her airway has constricted exponentially overnight, making every inhale and exhale a sore and downright _painful_ affair. 

 

Her head pounds, and her senses feel flagrantly inhibited, but she forces herself to slide open her eyelids all the same, clenching her jaw hard when the bright-ish yellowy lights seem to blind her on sight. 

 

It takes a concerted effort, but, a second later, she’s fully opened her eyes to witness none other than Alex Danvers leaning over her (though she has yet to realize that Lena has awoken), the redheaded woman staring hard at the monitor displaying Lena’s vitals and scribbling something rather aggressively upon her white plastic clipboard. 

 

She’s blurry, still, in Lena’s dazed vision, but she feels a crooked smile quirking at her lips just the same. 

 

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” she croaks out hoarsely, then winces reflexively at her gravelly tone. 

 

Alex’s eyes widen and dart down to see a very much awake Lena beneath her, and she instantly backs away for a moment to set her clipboard somewhere (Lena doesn’t quite see where, and honestly, she doesn’t much care) before promptly returning, brown eyes round and immaculately-done eyebrows stitched with worry. 

 

“Lena! You’re… you're awake,” she breathes out, a surprisingly gentle quality to her tone that Lena has never born witness to before—it’s rather jarring, she thinks… but, comforting, too, in a way Lena never quite thought she’d ever feel with the ever-intimidating Alex Danvers. 

 

“It would appear so,” she quips dryly, words discordant and terribly strained—it is a small comfort, though, to note that she’s remained in her clothes from earlier, even if her designer emerald-green skin-tight dress is more than enough to make her feel just the tiniest bit suffocated. “Do you have some water?”

 

Alex nods, jolting immediately into action, walking away for a moment or two before swiftly returning with a styrofoam cup in hand—she has a curious expression on her face as she does, one caught somewhere between apprehension and worry.

 

(Lena doesn’t quite know what to do about that.)

 

Lena murmurs her thanks as she takes the cup, wincing as the cool liquid makes its way down her battered throat—then, she takes another sip, brows furrowed, trying to remember… 

 

_Sebastian_. She’d gone to meet with Sebastian, and Alex had left, and… 

 

And, he’d put his large hands around her neck, and squeezed. _Hard_. 

 

And, then… nothing. Nothing but darkness.

 

Try as she might, she can’t remember anything beyond that. 

 

“Sebastian Blood is in one of our holding cells,” Alex tells her (presumably by way of breaking the tense silence between the two of them), her words hesitant and quiet—so profoundly unlike the quintessential Alex Danvers temerity that Lena had always admired, even if she’d never admit it. 

 

Lena merely nods, taking another slow sip of water and wincing as it trickles down her inflamed throat—but, Alex’s expectant (yet admittedly patient) stare doesn’t waver, and Lena knows it won’t… not unless she engages, too, even if that is quite possibly the last thing she wants to be doing at the current moment. 

 

So, after a moment’s hesitation, she does: “I imagine he’s long since called his lawyers by now.”

 

Alex heaves a sigh. 

 

“I don’t want you to worry about that, Lena,” she replies gently, and Lena scoffs (even if it grates against her airway in a terribly painful way). 

 

“There’s no way you have enough probable cause to be holding him against his will, much less here at the D.E.O.,” Lena quips hoarsely, wordlessly handing Alex back the half-empty styrofoam cup and pushing herself to sit upright atop the mattress, wincing at the stiffness in her limbs that protest tremendously against the sudden movement. 

 

Alex bites her lower lip, looking as if she wants to help Lena but can’t quite figure out of it’s appropriate—either way, Lena succeeds in righting herself a moment later (with her legs hanging easily off the edge of bed), accepting the styrofoam cup back from an uncharacteristically quiet Alex Danvers with a throaty _“Thanks.”_

 

“I’m not going to release him,” Alex states stubbornly after a brief silence, and Lena feels her lips quirk into something of a smile despite herself—there’s a bit of the Alex she’s come to know and (sort of) like. 

 

“I don’t think you have much of a choice, Agent Danvers.”

 

“Alex,” she corrects, and Lena gifts her a tense smile. 

 

“Alex,” Lena concedes with humor, taking another sip of water—it gets easier every time, the burn of it going down her throat, the unpleasant juxtaposition of cool hydration against the achingly raw skin of her esophagus. “He’ll try and ruin you for having him unlawfully detained—and, what’s more, he’ll win.”

 

“I’m not letting him out.”

 

“You have to.”

 

“I don’t _have_ to do anything,” Alex snarls, and Lena shakes her head, letting out a quiet sigh of annoyance. 

 

“I’m trying to protect you—"

 

“So am I!” Alex blurts out explosively, throwing her hands up in utter exasperation, brown eyes blazing with an intensity that might've scared Lena had she not known very well it wasn’t directed towards her. “You know, your self-preservation skills suck.”

 

Lena chuckles at that, then winces as the action scrapes harshly against the tender insides of her throat. 

 

“I think you might be onto something there,” Lena affirms dryly, a small wry smile upon her features that Alex doesn’t return. 

 

Instead, she remains silent for a long spell, simply watching Lena with a decidedly contemplative expression—after a minute or two, it gets reasonably uncomfortable; Lena’s just about to make a clever jibe to break the consummate quiet (and, perhaps more importantly, the over-powering sensation of _discomfort_ rising in her chest), but Alex gets there first: 

 

“You’re not scared of death, Lena, are you?” Alex states, a flat edge to her tone—and, despite the phrasing, it’s not really a question.

 

Lena sighs, looking down and fiddling with the now-empty styrofoam cup in her (slightly trembling) grip.

 

“I think everyone’s at least a little bit scared to die,” she murmurs, and she can practically see Alex rolling her eyes above her in response. 

 

“That’s not what I asked.”

 

Lena clenches her jaw, finally looking up to meet Alex’s vaguely embittered gaze with a calm one of her own. (Or, at least, that’s what she hopes it resembles.)

 

“Is Kara back yet?” she asks then, even if she knows the answer already, the reality of it bitter on her tongue. 

 

(Because, if Kara’s not here beside her, then she’s otherwise engaged on a planet that isn’t Earth… even in the middle of fights and conflict and the worst of battles, Kara would always come to Lena’s side, no matter what. _Always_.)

 

“No,” Alex admits quietly. “No, she’s not.”

 

Lena had more or less known to expect this, but still, it sinks deep into her heart like a molten blade, only adding to the considerable damage both Lionel and Sebastian had left in their wake.

 

And, speaking of Sebastian… 

 

God, she needs a drink.

 

“You need to release Sebastian,” Lena states conclusively whilst she gingerly moves herself to stand beside the hospital bed, ripping out her IV with a slight resultant flinch and fixing Alex with an uncompromising stare (well, as best as she manage at the current moment, anyhow). “And, I trust you’ll call me if there’s any news of Kara?”

 

Alex’s gaze narrows. “You’re leaving.”

 

“Your powers of perception remain as astounding as ever,” Lena quips dryly, already eyeing her Oscar de la Rente purse sitting upon the far counter, then instantly regrets it at the altogether unamused expression upon the elder Danvers’ features. “A CEO’s work is never done,” she hastens to add as a means of conciliation, a sort of unspoken apology for her satire—the crease between Alex’s brows fades ever-so-slightly at that, and Lena thinks that that’s probably the best she’s going to get. 

 

Alex clenches her jaw tightly but gives a curt nod, and a short “Alright”—Lena’s brows shoot immediately towards her hairline. 

 

“You won’t try and stop me this time?” she asks, deliberately injecting a bit of humor into her tone (though, she’s not much surprised when Alex doesn’t smile). 

 

Alex quirks a single brow. “Would that change your mind?”

 

Lena smirks, huffing out an amused puff of air, and Alex merely shrugs, a reluctant but almost droll quirk to her lips. 

 

“I didn’t think so,” she remarks, then pauses for a moment, a decidedly solemn expression retaking her features. “I want you to call me if Sebastian tries anything again… Or… Or, even if he doesn’t, and you just want to… I don’t know, like, talk, or… something—just call me, okay?”

 

Lena’s bemused grin widens, though there’s an undeniable sort of unfamiliar ease rising unimpeded in her chest, a kind of affection that begets tingling warmth throughout her being and inexplicable tears burning in her eyes that have nothing to do with Sebastian or Lionel or Kara, even. 

 

(It’s like… belonging, she thinks. 

 

It’s like the achingly close proximity Lena has always longed for within the endless grievances and rigid confines of the human condition, like lungfuls of redeeming oxygen after far too long spent forcibly embalmed beneath torrential seas, like maybe, just maybe, she doesn’t have to be utterly alone in this life like she’d always feared. 

 

It’s terrifying, of course, but, there’s something else there, too… something that feels a hell of a lot like hope.)

 

“Why, Alex Danvers… Are you going soft on me?” she jibes, though it’s willfully warmer and wrought with poignant sincerity—Alex’s lips curl into a smirk, a scoff escaping the redheaded woman as she rolls her eyes good-naturedly, and Lena feels that incredibly warm feeling inside her begin to grow expeditiously and wholly uncontested. 

 

“Don’t test me, Luthor,” Alex snarks easily back, though there’s an almost amiable glint in hazelnut-brown eyes that tells Lena everything she’s not saying—most importantly of all, that they’re going to be okay. 

 

(Hell, at the rate they’re going, they might even become _friends_ —though, Lena knows far better than to hope for such a thing.)

 

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

 

🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰

 

The first thing she does when she gets home is pour herself two fingers of scotch in a crystal-glass tumbler, the pungent smell of it bizarrely comforting as she swirls it delicately beneath her nose, a million and one thoughts racing through her exhausted brain until she sincerely doubts she’ll fight off sleep for long, even with Kara gone and the citrusy-pinewood (purely _intoxicating_ ) scent of her clinging unrepentantly to the rumpled sheets upon the mattress they share in that cold, minimalist master bedroom that only Kara can ever make feel like home.

 

Next, she peels off her jade-green dress and unclips her bra with nearly robotic movements (her hands tremble all the while), before leaving it pooled unceremoniously upon the soft carpet flooring of the bedroom and digging through Kara’s drawers until she finds what she’s looking for: that cotton grey Midvale High School tee that Kara always wore to bed, now so incredibly worn and _soft_ after countless washing machine cycles, its smell so forest-y and fruity and entirely _Kara_ as its thin fabric settles across her bare torso, Lena nearly breaks down crying on the spot. 

 

She slides out of her black lace panties, too, in favor of another identical pair in white—Kara’s favorite, Lena knows—and, it’s just so goddamned close to perfect, yet so unbelievably far away at the same time, because Kara’s pleasant essence surrounds her like the warmest of hugs, and the smooth hem of her Midvale tee tickles the tops of Lena’s bare thighs, but she’s not here, and it’s like the worst kind of delusion even as it brings her a sort of poignant gratification she thinks she’d fucking _break_ without. 

 

She thinks she’s far too emotionally (and physically) drained for a shower, but she pads into the bathroom with makeup removal wipes and a pitifully-feigned sense of vague resoluteness that she prays vehemently might keep her from bursting into sobs—and, it’s not quite a sob, but a single tear traces down her immaculately-powdered cheekbones at the sight of her once-pale neck, now blotched with irritated hues of deep red Lena knows will become mottled purple-and-blue bruises by morning. 

 

(Not to mention, the longer Lena spends eyeing her haggard reflection in the spotless mirror, she thinks she sees a purple-ish pattern of bruising appearing beneath the the reddened skin that will only worsen over the next day or so.)

 

She’s in her darkened bedroom necking the last of the scotch in her tumbler, face bare of any makeup, involuntary shudders trailing down her spine, when—

 

“Lena?” comes Kara’s bright voice echoing throughout the halls from (presumably) the balcony doors, her energetic footfalls sounding upon the hardwood and rapidly nearing the bedroom; Lena freezes in place, the empty tumbler just inches from her lips as she hastily gulps down the last of the acrid liquor, thinking of Alex and the reddened marks upon her neck and _Sebastian_ even whilst consecrated security and overwhelming relief pulses throughout her being, because, _Kara is finally here_. 

 

Oh, God. 

 

_Kara is finally here_. 

 

🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰 🝰

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> domestic supercorp? sldfkjsdlkfjlsdkf i DIE

**Author's Note:**

> would love to know your thoughts:)
> 
> also here’s the link to my 


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